


Tales of the Longest Night

by just_ann_now



Series: Tales of the Longest Night [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five tales of Mettarë celebrations, givers and gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Longest Night

**The Longest Night**

On the Longest Night, lovers renew their vows.

The Shortest Day is therefore a festival of anticipation. Cooks, goodwives, maidens prepare feasts to intoxicate the senses: oysters, asparagus, figs. Red wine or honeyed mead, jasmine tea or cool water. Whether the delicacies are served on gold, pewter, or wood, the same care and devotion go towards preparing the evening’s repast, food and drink to fuel the long night’s passion. 

Artisans view the occasion with delight, for it is also tradition that the night be commemorated with gifts. Jewels to be draped over a bared, candlelit throat. Pillow books, intricate bindings embedded with cabochons and pearls; tiny illustrations shockingly detailed. Winter roses, coddled into early bloom; amulets lovingly carved of coral or jade. Invigorating potions half - laughingly purchased, to be poured out gleefully in the morning: age and infirmity held at bay for another year. 

When the last trace of sunset has disappeared from the sky, lovers will whisper the ancient words: _With my body, I thee worship._ It matters not if the vows were first spoken a hundred years, one year, or one hour, ago: the Longest Night is the first of all nights, and tonight, all love is made new. Silken lips roam heated skin, led by touch and taste and scent.

Aragorn Elessar murmurs the words, his voice soft as ever, to his lady queen. There was one to whom this vow was never spoken; but words whispered to a dying man has made this night possible. Now lovers will rest peacefully, free of fear.


	2. The Courtesan

**The Courtesan**

On the longest night, lovers renew their vows. If one does not have a lover, one finds one, for a few hours at least, for to sleep alone through this long dark is to risk a year of loneliness and grief. Such is the legend in this cold White City. 

The Captain-General always comes to me on the Longest Night, sending a note weeks ahead of time requesting my company. Of course this is purely a matter of form: had I a dozen other visitors on that or any night, they would all be swept aside. The Steward’s Heir is a man to take what he desires, whether by graciousness and charm or other means. None would gainsay him, nor would I wish them to; it is due to his well-known patronage that I have achieved my success.

At first he would take his pleasure of me twice or thrice in the course of the night. Later, as we became more comfortable together, and began to regard each other with a certain measure of honesty, the act itself became less important. Then, one year, he was unable to complete it at all. It was not that he was unmanned, oh, no; he could not find what he needed in my softly curving flesh. Gently I took him in my mouth, instead; his gasping release seemed almost like a sob. Afterwards I held him, stroking his hair as he drifted off to sleep, and was still awake when he turned, reaching, murmuring his beloved’s name. 

No one need ever know the secrets that bind us. And so the years pass. 

I will never attend the Steward’s Mettarë ball, but on other nights there are other entertainments, where no one is shocked to see me on my lord’s arm. And each year I will display his latest Mettarë gift, always rubies, blood-red against the starkness of my skin. There are those who would see, silently measure and count out the cost, nodding that I must still be in favor, and therefore worth their continued attention. I have wealth, an elegant home, devoted servants, and, thanks to my lord, such status as is possible for a woman of my calling in the greatest city in the world. 

One day he will marry, and spend the Longest Night in his lady wife’s arms. Will he come to me afterwards for comfort, knowing that here at least he can safely cry out his lover’s name, mourning that which cannot be? For well do I understand the longing for that which we can never have.


	3. The Jeweler

**The Jeweler**

From the time I was a small boy, first beginning to help in the shop, I always knew that we would be busy in the last few days before Mettarë. It seemed a fact of life, though I recall once asking my mother as she tucked me into bed, exhausted, following a supper I could barely eat, “Why do they not come earlier? It is not like Mettarë comes as a surprise, after all.” She laughed merrily, and said that perhaps that was part of the enjoyment of the celebration, the bustle of preparation and anticipation. And as I grew older I realized that was, in fact, the truth.

Not that I begrudged the Captain-General his annual visit; in fact, I looked forward to it. Certainly he could send for me; I would be honored to bring him a selection of jewels to view privately. Yet he seemed to realize the effect his being seen in my shop had on my business, both during the busy season and throughout the year, and was generous with his time and patronage. 

In the first years of our association, I would set aside pieces of unusual beauty or quality of craftsmanship for his perusal. He would study them politely, agree that they were unique and lovely, but always end up choosing rubies. Whether they were his mistress's favorite, or his own, I never knew. After a time, I began to specialize in rubies, and other sensuous gemstones. I need only to murmur, “This was set aside for the Captain-General, but ...” for a necklace or set of earrings to be quickly snatched up, to adorn some formidable matron or mollify a petulant mistress. 

This year was no different. Three days before the holiday, late in the afternoon, he arrived, waiting patiently as my assistants and I tended our other customers, bidding them good wishes of the season as they left. I beckoned him off to a corner and whisked away the silk covering from the tray I kept set aside for him. He seemed distracted and made his choice quickly, a necklace and matching circlet. Scrawling his signature on the bill of sale, he nodded and turned to go.

As he was leaving, though, another display caught his eye, a collection of antique jewelry brought in late in the summer by a trader's widow. I had felt pity for her; she only needed enough, she said, for passage to Dol Amroth, where she would live out her last days in her grandniece's household. I gave her twice as much as I thought the pieces were worth, set them on a pad of grey velvet, and forgot about them. The most striking piece was a massive silver torque, heavy and cunningly crafted, set with an unusual white stone.

I was surprised to see the Captain-General study it so intently. He seldom wore any ornaments, save at the most formal of occasions; neither did his father or brother, so far as I knew. Only his uncle and cousins (one cousin in particular, referred to as “The Peacock” by some of the more irreverent clothiers of the City) seemed interested in such things. But as I watched him, it became clear that he was not thinking of an uncle or cousin. For sixty years I have watched men and women selecting gifts, and I recognized that light in his eyes: it was the glow of imagining a lover's delight. In that moment I knew that all the half-whispered rumors about our Captain-General were true, and wondered fleetingly who was to be the fortunate recipient of that gift.


	4. The Unexpected Guest

**The Unexpected Guest**

There was nothing at all furtive about the kiss.

Théodred had shoved Boromir up against the wall in a corner of the Golden Hall. The swirl of dancers, the skirl of pipe and tambour was all around; the room smelled of peatsmoke and sweaty bodies. 

"How," murmured Théodred, "did you persuade the Steward to send you off at Mettarë?"

" 'Twas not difficult at all. I forged a invitation. Expensive, but well worth it." 

"Clever. Is it still snowing? You could be stranded here for weeks." The snow on Boromir's boots had melted into a pool around his feet; a few droplets glistened in his hair. 

"I could, couldn't I. Pity."

"Indeed." Théodred nuzzled Boromir's neck just below his ear. "You taste cold."

"I think..." Boromir ground his hips against Théodred's as he slipped icy fingers under the prince's tunic, chuckling at his startled gasp, "you're not tasting the right spot."


End file.
